


ways to fly

by viscrael



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study-ish, M/M, Trans Hinata, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hinata arrived on the first day of school, hair short, nauseous, wearing his new binder and a new pair of shoes and a new name.</p>
<p>alternatively titled: i try to make the trans hina headcanon fit into canon timeline</p>
            </blockquote>





	ways to fly

**Author's Note:**

> ive had this fic sitting in my folder since almost a year ago. this was originally going to follow kagehinas relationship all the way til they graduated high school, but as u can see, that did Not work out. so heres me giving into the temptation, finally, to post what i have
> 
> its also not super shippy bc its just at the beginning buds of their relationship but uh
> 
> anyway
> 
> **WARNINGS FOR** : dysphoria, sexualization of childrens bodies (by other kids, not adults tho), and mild depictions of transphobia. theres some vaguely transphobic language on hinatas part, but that was intentional with the idea that he wouldnt have the right language at his disposal yet. later on it gets better tho
> 
> **also** : im a trans boy myself so i drew from my own personal experiences when writing this (half of this fic is projecting tbh oops). if anything seems wrong or off, that might just be a difference in experience, but that being said, if i ever write anything that seems harmful, im open to conversation about it!

Growing up, it’s not that Hinata Shouyou particularly _hated_ wearing dresses or being referred to as a girl or being called his birth name.

In fact, up until he was ten, he didn’t hate it at all. It was normal to him, and the idea of anything else would’ve seemed foreign at the time. The sound of his name; the gentle susurrus of adults referring to him in a way that would later be considered wrong—it was all normal, all habitual, all constant. He didn’t question it.

It wasn’t a fact of hearing “she” and “her” and “girl” towards him and immediately cringing; it was the slow, acidic burn of later, once he was forced through sex ed, once he was old enough to recognize that _boys_ and _girls_ were supposed to be different, once he was old enough to know that he wasn’t “normal”—it was then that he realized it didn’t fit correctly, like a puzzle piece that was a few angles wrong, just enough to throw him off but not enough where other people couldn’t shove it into place anyway.

Being a girl was more like dress up to him that it was like real life, and maybe that’s why he didn’t realize anything was off until Girl Things started—because little kids played dress up all the time, right? Surely other girls felt like that too, didn’t they? Like they were only pretending when they told someone they were a girl or their name was so and so or they were a she and did Girl Things. Like they were lying when they had to choose the right side of the classroom when the teacher said, _girls over here, boys over there._ That was normal. Right?

Was it normal to wish he could go to the left side of the room?

His mother fawned over him, over how cute he was in his little yellow dress when he had to attend a wedding at age eight, his dad still getting dressed. She smiled widely, fixing his curly hair back into a neat, orange bun, which would later come undone as he ran around during the reception. He had smiled back at her, let her kiss his cheek, and played with the bracelet he’d been wearing, one that was leather and worn, memorabilia from his best friend in his class. When his mom saw it, she fussed at him, saying he couldn’t wear a dirty old thing like that when he looked so pretty otherwise.

_Pretty_.

If pretty meant he couldn’t wear his bracelet, he didn’t want anything to do with it, he told her, and she just clucked her tongue and shook her head, said he’d understand when he was older, he’d care when he was older, and as his dad came down the stairs fully dressed, she rushed them out the door, _let’s get going before we’re late!_

They ended up late anyway.

 

\--

 

(He tore that yellow dress a few hours later when he was playing too hard with some other kids, tripping over a loose tree root and ripping a little hole in the front.)

 

\--

 

Hinata went through a phase as an elementary schooler, a year away from being in junior high, where he knew that something was Wrong. He didn’t know what, but something was there, something that shouldn’t be—or maybe there was something missing? Was it a gaping hole or was it too full? He didn’t know, and he didn’t know what to do when he didn’t know. He started feeling worse when his dad called him “young lady” or when his mother made fleeting comments about his body, about his femininity, comments that he would later try to wash off as he scrubbed himself clean, scrubbed away the bad feeling. The Wrong stuck like gum in his hair, like the taste in his mouth after taking medicine. He wasn’t alone without the Wrong, and soon it became unbearable.

Hinata had been an “early bloomer,” as his many distant aunts would say during family reunions. He was considered tall for his grade, 5’1”, and he had already “ _developed,_ ” as his mother would whisper to their relatives—something very few others his age could say truthfully. He was chubby. (“Baby fat,” his mother would say, like it would hurt his feelings for her to say he was big for his size.) He got his period and started wearing bras when he was ten. Girls envied him, talking about their chest size or lack thereof in the cubby rooms, talking about how they wanted to look Grown Up too. Other boys made fun of him, popped his bra strap as he waited at the door with the rest of them to go to lunch, wolf whistled as he walked by or hid behind their book after glancing at his Grown Up body.

He hated it.

In fifth grade he decided to try being a Normal Girl. Normal Girls were supposed to wear dresses and feel comfortable like that, feel like themselves like that, right? Maybe he would just have to get used to it.

When he asked his mother to go dress shopping one Saturday afternoon, burying his face in his lunch and half-hoping she’d say no (or at the very least not heard his request), she gawked, mouth open, before standing up excitedly and saying that, yes, yes, of course we can, and she’d said his Name, the one he’d realized he’d hated, the one he’d started thinking didn’t Feel Right at all, and they’d spent the rest of the day shopping together.

 

\--

 

And so the year continued like that, mostly, with him wearing dresses every day, cute little shoes with ribbons on them, short hair tied back in pigtails, curls getting in the way of playing with his friends, dress inhibiting him even more so. He started to get used to it, but it never Felt Right. Playing pretend didn’t stop, and he grew more desperate as the year went by.

Christmas swept by. His Name, now so uncomfortable and so foreign that he cringed hearing it, was said much more than he’d ever realized it was. Comments, conversation, polite chattering was passed around the table at meals, some aimed at him, others at his parents.

_Oh, has she got any boys confessing to her yet?_

_How are her grades?_

_She’s started dressing like a young lady! Oh, she’s so lovely!_

_I can just tell you’ll grow into a beautiful woman, just as beautiful as your mother!_

He got his period that month on December 27th. He cried.

 

\--

 

He didn’t do any research on what he was. Not at first, anyway. It was a coincidence that he’d happened to stumble upon a website that showcased kids and teens who’s bodies didn’t Feel Right or something like that. He’d heard of a boy who’d changed into a girl before—one of his friend’s sisters or something, a first year in high school—but nothing in depth, nothing that had a name. Nothing that would ever affect him.

Feeling sick, he wrote the website address on a sheet of paper, stuffed it in his pocket, and erased his history.

 

\--

 

He cried telling his mom. She hugged him and cried too.

 

\--

 

Hinata came out as a transgender boy in junior high.

At first, his parents thought it was too soon to tell. It took a few months of them getting used to the idea, and even more of them researching things like, “What to Do When Your Child Thinks They’re Transgender,” “The Parents Guide to Caring for a Transgender Child,” and “Transgender: What It Means.”

Hinata was patient. It would take a long time, and it was true that he wasn’t the best at waiting, but the way he felt, rolling “he” and “him” around on his tongue nights on end, repeating sentences to himself in the darkness of his room (“My name is Hinata Shouyou. I am an eleven year old boy.” “His name is Hinata Shouyou. He’s eleven years old. He will be a first year at Yukigaoka Junior High.”) was enough to motivate him into patience.

It took a lot of convincing, a lot of getting used to his new name and new pronouns, and a lot of correcting his parents, but sooner or later they started warming up to it. They still didn’t introduce him as their son to coworkers or the new neighbors that just moved in, but sometimes his dad would say it around the house and that felt pretty good too.

It was a few weeks before school would start when his mother called him in from eating a popsicle on the front steps.

“Yeah?” He popped his head into the door, looking around to where she was before finishing his sweet and wiping his hands on his shorts, brushing his short hair away from his face and successfully getting it sticky. He’d gotten a haircut a few weeks before school let out.

His parents were in the living room, standing in front of the couch, his mother with her hands behind her back hiding something. They both looked equally excited, but he saw her shift more than a few times like she was worried. He titled his head at them in a silent question.

“We have a present for you,” she said, and his face lit up.

“Really?!”

They nodded, and his dad looked like he couldn’t contain his smile. Noticing this, his mother ushered him forward. Hinata did so willingly, unable to hide his curiosity.

What he received was a small package, wrapped loosely, and judging by its weight he assumed it was a shirt. He opened it, his parents watching with a mix of hesitance and excitement, and then he was holding a tank top—except not really, because it looked tighter, and had clasps, and it wasn’t the size of a normal tank top, only going to about his belly button.

His parents were looking at him like he should say something.

“Um,” he said.

Seeing that he didn’t understand, his mother explained, “It’s a binder. It’s. Well, um, it’s kind of like a sports bra, to…to flatten your chest. So you’ll look more like…”

Hinata understood what she was saying, even as she trailed off, and he didn’t say anything for a moment, processing the information and running his hands over the fabric of the binder. When it finally got through, his head shot up to look at his parents.

They were smiling. He could still taste the popsicle.

“You…you got this for me?”

“It was your father’s idea,” his mom provided helpfully.

Hinata cried so many happy tears he was afraid they’d leave permanent stains on his cheeks. He hugged both his parents tightly, tight enough to relieve the pressure in his chest, the binder still in his hand.

 

\--

 

Hinata Shouyou almost threw up on the first day of being at Yukigaoka Junior High. He and his parents had agreed it was best for him to come out as he was entering a new school, since it would be a smoother transition. They had a meeting with the school’s administration and his upcoming teachers, letting them know of his situation and making sure his teachers called him Shouyou instead of his Name, and to make sure they treated him as what he was—a boy. He was glad that his parents hadn’t made him come to the meeting. He would’ve passed out, probably.

And so he arrived on the first day, hair short, nauseous, wearing his new binder and a new pair of shoes and a new name.

Kids that knew him from elementary—so a good third of the kids in his class—kept calling him his Name at first, and every time someone called him a girl or used “she” it stung more than before. He knew what it felt like to be referred the way he wanted— _needed_ to be, so to suddenly go back felt ten times worse than it ever had. It took a week or two before kids caught on to the fact that his teachers were referring to him with “he,” and when they did, someone would correct the teacher. The teacher, thankfully, would ignore the comment and continue the lesson.

It wasn’t until gym that Hinata felt actually afraid.

He’d already worked out with the gym teachers that he would be changing in the faculty bathroom—there was no way he could go in the girls’ changing room, not when he knew how badly the Wrong would return, and he couldn’t change in the boys’ for fear of someone trying to pick a fight with him. And he brought a sports bra with him every day to change into because he wasn’t allowed to exercise in his binder because of “safety reasons,” as his mother said. His new shoes were perfect for playing kick ball and he’d been bored all summer from not doing much running around. He felt pretty prepared.

But then there was the fact of _actual_ gym class.

He sat by himself most of the time, having not made any friends yet, but when the teachers called for boys on the left side, girls on the right, and he could finally, _finally_ go to the left, his nerves shot up, his heartbeat thrumming in his chest painfully. His fingertips tingled, arms shaking, as he made his way with the group of other boys his age to their side of the gym.

_What’s a girl doing here?_

The whispers started. His heart crept into his throat. The back of his tongue prickled, a sign he was going to throw up.

“Hey!” One of the boys stepped up, coming to stand in front of Hinata to get his attention. The redhead blinked at the other. “What are you doing with the boys?!”

Shouyou’s voice came out weak, unconvincing, too high and too soft. “I’m a boy.”

The kid’s eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not. You’re a girl.”

_You’re a girl._

His stomach turned, this time in anger. He cleared his throat. “I’m a boy.”

“But you look like a _girl_. You’re not supposed to be over here!”

Blood boiled in his ears, heart thrumming still, and the warmth tingling in his fingers spread up his arm into his chest to meet the steady drum trapped in bone. Fists clenched, teeth following suit. “I’m _not_ a girl, I’m a _boy_ , and I’m where I’m supposed to be!”

The boy looked surprised at his response. Looking back, he doesn’t know what he would’ve done next, had the gym teacher not politely called him over to see her.

“Shouyou,” she said, voice gentle and warm. He stood in front of her with his hands behind his back, trying his best to keep eye contact.

“Yes?”

“Is there something wrong?”

A beat. Two beats. Three. Noticing his hesitation, she said, “If the boys are bothering you, I can talk to them—“

“No! No. It’s fine. Nothing’s wrong.” He tried for a smile, the one he used to assure his mother he would be okay on his bike rides. Even though the boy’s words had hurt, and even though the Wrong was tingling in the back of his head like an oncoming migraine, he felt bad, and didn’t want to get any of his classmates in trouble. Hopefully they would leave him alone without needing the teacher to help.

She looked at him carefully for a moment before nodding. “Okay. But if you ever need anything, you’re welcome to come to me.”

Shouyou smiled again, nodded, and was sent back to the left side of the gym.

 

-

 

(That night, when he got home, Shouyou stood in front of the upstair’s bathroom’s mirror, the one across the hall from his room, and stared at his reflection as he repeated, “I’m a boy,” over and over again, like a broken record, a mantra he was using to keep himself whole.)

 

-

 

He made friends.

His first ones in junior high, actually—two boys named Izumi and Koji. Izumi was a little bit taller than him, with dirty blonde hair and a sweet personality, while Koji had dark hair and a voice loud enough to rival Hinata’s. They weren’t the best of friends, but they hung out after school sometimes, and neither of them had any problem with Hinata, so he guessed he really couldn’t ask for more.

Koji was busy most of the time, so more often than not it was just Izumi and Hinata who rode their bikes together around town.

It was one of those days, pedaling quickly, spring air cutting through his jacket just enough to be a little too cold, when a TV screen happened to capture his attention and keep it, bike coming to a halt.

_“Score!”_

_“The Little Giant lives up to his name!”_

It wasn’t like the world stopped.

(But the world kind of stopped.)

When Izumi caught up with him, Hinata was still staring, mouth open, eyes wide, wondering just how hard it would be to get into volleyball.

 

\--

 

He guessed he really _couldn’t_ ask for better friends, because as annoying as Hinata was sure he was being, and as busy as both Izumi and Koji were with their own sports, they still made time to toss to him after school, and they only sometimes complained about his constant chattering. The only issue was that Yukigaoka didn’t have a boy’s volleyball team.

_“What do you want to do? Change to another team? Or do you want to join the girls’ team?”_

Hinata declined the offer of joining the girls. He’d just have to be the only member, at least for now.

And the only member he was, for quite a while. He practiced by himself and with his friends, who reluctantly tossed to him, always too high or too low; regardless, Hinata didn’t complain. He was lucky enough as it was that they were taking the time to humor him, anyway. And sometimes, when the girls’ team wasn’t too busy, he would hang out in the gym during their practices, watching them and learning from the bleachers.

A few of his old friends from elementary school were on the team, ones that he had been reluctant to interact with at first, scared of their opinion of him, but after a while he got the courage to ask them to toss to him. The first time he asked, they had blinked, looking confused and a bit hesitant, before promising to help him after practice. Hinata had chirped out an enthusiastic, “Thank you!” before beaming and bouncing off to wait and watch.

He played wherever he could—the gym when it was empty, his backyard during the spring and summer, any wall that was blank and away from too many people. Sometime between all his practicing (alone or otherwise) he figured out that, while he was short, he _did_ have one useful skill.

He could jump.

And jump he did, for three more years. Koji would ask him—the two of them hanging around the park with the sun getting low in the sky, Hinata having begged them to stay there a little longer so he could toss more—why he even still bothered.

_“What’s the point if you’re never going to compete in a tournament?”_

Shouyou had been quick to respond, indignant. _“I_ will _get to compete in a tournament!”_

Koji had sort of sighed, rolling his eyes a little, while Shouyou continued to glare at him. He _would_ get to compete some day. He’d get a team together, and they’d be able to play on that stage, and when he went to high school, he would get to stand on the same one the Little Giant did, and he would _win_. Realistically, Shouyou knew that he wasn’t that good yet, and he probably wouldn’t be until he got a team together, but he was improving every day, and the girls on the team where good impromptu coaches, and he _could do it._ He just _had_ to.

The chance to compete came in the form of three first years and insistent begging for Koji and Izumi to “join the team! C’m _on_ , it’s your off season anyway, and we only need two more players!” Eventually, Izumi gave in, and once Izumi gave in he knew that Koji would too, and low and behold, there they were, about to compete for the first time _ever_ , playing _actual volleyball_ , against _actual other people_.

It was overwhelming, to say the least. Three years of hard work and dreaming about this and here he was, standing with his friends beside him, three hesitant first years shuffling awkwardly behind their senpais. The team wasn’t perfect; in fact, Izumi and Koji hadn’t even learned the rules until after they got there, but this was Hinata’s first chance to play like this, and he wasn’t about to give it up so easily.

That was easier said than done, especially when actually coming face to face with the other team they would be competing against. They didn’t _look_ like junior high students, that’s for sure; how were any of them fourteen? And were there even any first years? If there were, why were they so damn _tall_?

He saw his friends behind him shift nervously and felt the first years’ moods shift considerably, and he squared his shoulders, deciding that, as captain, he would just have to suck up his worries for the rest of them. Again, better said than done, because immediately after his stomach started churning and he felt the tickle in his throat and yeah he really needed to get out of there before he puked on himself.

It didn’t help any that using the men’s restroom in new public places always made him even more anxious, but he didn’t really even think about that until he was done throwing up what little lunch he’d eaten. Voices outside the bathroom sounded fuzzy in his ears, but as he pushed the door open, he could discern them.

_“I’ve never even heard of Yukigaoka Junior High.”_

_“They’re small in number it seems. They don’t even have a libero.”_

_“They’re the height of elementary school kids; they’re no match for us.”_

The tips of Hinata’s fingers did that tingling thing again, where it spread up his arm, and his scowl deepened when he called, “Hey dudes.”

All three of them turned around, evidently surprised to see him there. “Don’t underestimate us,” he threatened, but the sudden churning in his stomach and the need to puke again ruined the effect. He blanched. ”Soon as my stomach settles, I’ll teach you guys a lesson, so be ready!”

It had the literal opposite desired result; they started laughing all at once.

“Is this guy serious?”

“Yes, sir, we’ll be ready!”

“Elementary school,” one of them mockingly whispered to the other in a volume just loud enough for Hinata to hear. His blood boiled again, Wrong prickling the back of his mind, his fingers itching to curl into fists where they were clenched tight against his still aching stomach.

_“Hey, second-years.”_

\--

 

The first thing Hinata Shouyou learned about Kageyama Tobio was that he was a _total asshole_.

Literally the biggest asshole he’d ever met. Who did he think he was, acting like Hinata hadn’t worked his way here, acting like they weren’t serious about winning? What did he even know about Hinata’s team anyway? Nothing, that’s what. It pissed Shouyou off and only made him more determined to beat the jerk.

The second thing Hinata Shouyou learned about Kageyama Tobio was that he was _really_ _good at volleyball_.

Which…honestly, shouldn’t have surprised him; they wouldn’t have called him the King of the Court if he wasn’t good at what he did, and besides, the aura he gave off was enough to convince Hinata he was worthy of that title. It shouldn’t surprise him, and he wasn’t…really, it was just… a little overwhelming playing against them. Overwhelming, because he’d never gotten to play like this before, and overwhelming, because he’d _never gotten to play like this before_.

They _would_ win, and they _would_ get to play the next match and continue on like this. They had to. Hinata knew they would.

 

\--

 

They didn’t.

 

\--

 

_My first and last official match of junior high._

_Our sets: zero._

_Total game time: only 31 minutes._

\--

 

_“If you’re the King of the Court…”_

The tears wouldn’t stop once they’d started.

_“…I’ll have to defeat you, and I’ll be the last one standing!”_

\--

 

Hinata was persistent and determined, and with a new motivator for improving, he set about his goal pretty quick, working with the girls’ team more often than he had, trying to jumpstart his ability before he would eventually start Karasuno High School in the spring. When spring finally came, he was feeling pretty confident; even though Izumi and Koji had decided to go to a different school and he would therefore be pretty much on his own, he wasn’t worried. And the thirty minute bike ride to and from school would benefit him even if it did kind of suck that he had to wake up so much earlier now than he did in junior high.

The first day of school was mostly introducing the first years to everything, and he spent the entrance ceremony jiggling his leg, anxious to get to the clubs so he could introduce himself to the volleyball team. This would be his first time on a _real_ volleyball team, and he didn’t plan to mess it up.

Once the first years were let out, he all but ran to the gym, smiling the whole way. This was a fresh start from junior high, without kids that still called him his Name, without kids that still didn’t believe he was a boy, without kids that told him he couldn’t compete. Here, he would finally be on a team, and he would finally get to play like he’d wanted—needed. He would join the team, train hard, compete in tournaments with everyone else and prove to that stupid King of the Court that he could win for once.

Hinata was ready.

He opened the gym doors.

 

\--

 

_“What are_ you _doing here?!”_

 

\--

 

It turned out a little bit more complicated than what he’d had planned.

Sugawara and Daichi were nice enough; he had to tell them about his “condition,” and they said that they would work out changing room and bathroom arrangements so he wouldn’t change with the rest of the boys, if that made him more comfortable. At first he was going to say yes, because that’s all he’d ever done during gym in junior high, but then he remembered that this wasn’t junior high, and these were his _teammates_ now, and he didn’t want to be left out like he’d always been before.

His stomach still turned at the fear of being made fun of by some of the boys, but Sugawara assured him that no one on the team would ever be that insensitive, so if he’d rather change with everyone else, that was perfectly fine too. So Hinata beamed, thanked them, and said he’d rather do that, if that was fine with them.

But then there was also the prospect of suddenly being on the same team as Kageyama. It wasn’t something he was at all keen to; and when they were kicked out and forced to work through their differences…well. He wasn’t any happier about the situation than Kageyama.

The year’s difference hadn’t messed with Hinata’s memory, that was for sure; Kageyama was still just as huge of an asshole, except now he had to get _along_ with said asshole. How was Shouyou supposed to beat him when they were on the same team? And how were they supposed to even work together when Kageyama _wouldn’t toss to him?_ And, okay, maybe knocking off the dean’s wig hadn’t exactly been a prime moment in Shouyou’s life, but it wasn’t really his fault, not when that jerk kept acting like Hinata hadn’t worked his ass off—not when Kageyama kept acting like he knew the first thing _about_ Hinata or his ability or literally _anything_. He may have lost in junior high, but he wasn’t planning on losing anymore.

He didn’t want to lose anymore.

And he wouldn’t lose during the three-on-three match either, even if it would be difficult to get along with the other boy. Kageyama was stubborn, and even though he refused to toss to him, they were going to win. They practiced during the afternoons the week before, and while it wasn’t exactly, uh, _pleasant_ to spend so much time with the King of the Court, it was also sort of exciting, in a way, because it meant the start of Hinata being on the team.

Speaking of the King of the Court, Hinata for the life of him couldn’t understand what was so wrong with being known as that or why Kageyama got so defensive over it. It wasn’t like it was bad, right? It was just a name people called him because of his overwhelming presence during a match, and even though it had only been for thirty minutes they played against each other, junior high didn’t fail to let Hinata know just how dominant he was on the court. In all honesty, Hinata wouldn’t at all mind having a nickname like that.

But then there was Tsukishama and his asshole personality and his insistence on calling Kageyama “King” while ignoring Hinata like he wasn’t a formidable opponent…and it pissed him off. He couldn’t help but get between the two of them and let Tsukishima know he was still there.

(And if part of Hinata had intervened when he did because he’d noticed Kageyama was genuinely upset about the nickname, well. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the feeling, and they were teammates now, technically, so it wasn’t a big deal, right?)

 

\--

 

The last practice before the three-on-three match and Hinata was working harder than he had all week, and even though it was still morning, he was drenched in sweat, sports bra clinging uncomfortably to his back and shirt sticking too closely to his body. His lungs felt like they were on fire, his legs like they were going to give in any minute, and still he pushed himself harder—he _had_ to. Kageyama was still sending the ball his way. He wasn’t going to give up.

Sugawara-san was watching the pair from the sidelines, and someone else entered the gym at some point and started a conversation with him, but Shouyou couldn’t hear them, nor was he even really aware of their presence. All he could hear was the thrumming in his ears of his heart beat, the laboring rise and fall of his heavy breaths, the squeak of his shoes on the floor as he forced his legs to keep moving, keep moving, _keep moving_. They’d been going at it nonstop for fifteen minutes. He was going to pass out if they kept it up for much longer.

The way he’d received the last ball, and from his position on the court, it should’ve been impossible for him to spike the toss Kageyama sent him.

But Hinata wasn’t exactly one for impossibles.

 

\--

 

(He ended up puking afterwards, but he was still smiling brighter than anything.)

 

\--

 

They won the three-on-three match.

 

\--

_“You toss to me just fine. It makes no difference to me.”_

\--

_“Kageyama! I’m here!”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> if this gets good feedback i Might try to finish it??? who knows tbh. its kinda plotless im sorry


End file.
